From Bananas to Monkeys

One of my favorite songs of all time is Laurie Anderson’s "Language Is a Virus." This lil’ ditty contains a most apropos set of lyrics that I would like to apply to my early postpartum recovery period:

Paradise is exactly like where you are right now, only much, much better.

Let me set the picture for you: Imagine that your insides have been blown apart. As you recover from such an incident, a sick monkey sits by your side, whimpering. Normally, he is a swell monkey, but now he is sick and unhappy, punctuating your few moments of blessed, contemplative silence with whining.

The monkey has a new friend, a tiny mosquito. Every two or three hours, this mosquito sucks the life force out of your blown-apart body. Each time you think you might be recovering or getting a tad bit of energy, the lil’ bloodsucker returns to drain you dry.

When you are recovering from a repeat c-section, each day seems to greet you with some new indignity—like a sitz bath, make that multiple sitz baths! In the postpartum days with Bertram, I accepted the low points of new motherhood with alacrity because I had the wonder of the first time on my side. Now the parenting merry-go-round ride has become less novel, and I slouch toward my upcoming days with a newborn and toddler in tow.

Yes, I am lucky to have two beautiful, healthy children. Yes, I love them. Yes, yes, yes. But when the monkey’s teeth make him whine, the lil’ mosquito cannot be sated, and my body is trying to find its way back to its former shape, both inside and out, I will be thinking about paradise being so close to where I am right now, only much, much, much…better.

No Longer Top Banana

The third trimester was not kind to Parental Unit #1, so the posts dwindled down to nothing. I hope that will change now that young Mistress Vivian has arrived.

What a shock it was to see this tiny baby with so much spiky brown hair! I guess I was expecting a female version of Bertram—the Aryan poster child. Our little Vivian has a tiny stork bite on her left eyelid, and a cute button nose. Young Master Bertram isn’t quite sure what to make of his sister.

When Bert first saw his baby sister in the plastic, salad-type bin that they keep the babies in at the hospital, he immediately wanted to hold her. So Parental Unit #2 put Bert in his lap, and then put Vivian in Bert’s lap. Bert had a few precious moments of looking at his sister with such a tender, focused look. I wish we had captured that in a photo. He then decided that he was “all done,” and just like that, he pushed her away. In fact, if I recall correctly (my mind was in a medicated haze), he urged us to return her to the plastic salad bin from whence she came.

Luckily, we distracted him with ice cream. According to a book we’ve been reading, being a big brother means being able to eat ice cream, pizza, and other treats that are off-limits to a gum-snapping newborn. At long last, young Master B enjoyed his big brother treat and kicked back with yours truly in the “magic” hospital bed to watch cartoons on a huge, flat-screen television.

Meanwhile, little Vivian napped with her grandparents, unaware of her brother’s tv-viewing shenanigans and general displeasure with these things called “commercials.”

And, a Love Note from 1.10.09

Maybe it’s the pregnesia, but I think today was the first time young Master Bertram said, “I love you!” as he gave out goodnight air kisses.

Mind you, he does not like to kiss us directly. He prefers to blow the air kisses to us. I would not mind so much if I didn't watch him kiss the crocodiles, gorillas, and other odd beasties that we read about in his books.

Remembrance of Things Past

Last night, I was updating young master Bertram’s baby book, which only covers the first year of his life. As I looked at the heap of first birthday cards I had saved, I wondered if it was necessary to keep all of them. Then, given the upcoming arrival of baby no. 2, I started thinking about the purpose of a baby book. Is it for me? Is it for young Master B? Will he be interested in a meticulously kept chart of his weight and height fluctuations in the first year? As young Master B’s mother, is that want I want to remember? It’s so easy, to start collecting stuff, his first drawings for example. I still feel strange putting his early, primitive scribblings in the recycle bin.

All of these thoughts made reflect on a friend—and an only child—who had been charged with sorting through his dead parents’ belongings. The enormity of such a task, an entire lifetime of stuff. What do you keep? What do you toss? He didn’t have any siblings to ask or share in the drudgery. My friend was struggling with all the boxes of mementos his mother had dutifully saved—the report cards from elementary school, yellowed newspaper clippings, old beat-up toys. Was he under obligation to keep those things because she had kept them?

My friend was left in a no-win situation. If he tossed it, he would feel guilty. If he kept it, he would resent that he had to keep these things in his tiny, substandard NYC apartment, or worse, pay for storage.

Pondering all of this, I decided not to keep all of Bertram’s first birthday cards. I decided not to fill out his height and weight charts. I decided not to feel guilty about tossing his drawings. I decided, that what I wanted most, was to leave behind stories versus stuff or facts and figures.

When I am dead, I do not want Bertram to decide what’s important to keep. Note to self: I hope he will be free of that burden. As we go through these eighteen years, I plan to select a few items; perhaps all that can fit in one standard-sized moving box.